


Busted Frame

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Asexual Character, Asexual Dean, Castiel Works at Gas-N-Sip, Castiel is Not Okay, First Meetings, Homeless Castiel, Humor, Lapdance, Light Angst, M/M, Michael Being A Dick, Self-Acceptance, Sibling Rivalry, Stripper Dean, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Surgeon Castiel, Talking, Teacher Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 16:45:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7446430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Above the crowd and the noise (and Michael’s endless griping and groaning), Blue Eyes speaks the loudest. Dean’s done this long enough to read people’s body language: It’s the way his irises slowly black out the Pacific and Atlantic Ocean in both eyes looking up at Dean. It’s the way his mouth parts over again, as if aspiring to be a human Venus flytrap. </p><p>It’s the way his body goes completely rigid against his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Busted Frame

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say? It all started with the idea of an asexual stripper.
> 
> Yes. An asexual stripper.
> 
> I'm so sorry.

"Five minutes.”

Dean nods towards his PA, causing the chest piece on his stethoscope to swing like a confused pendulum—similar to his ticker. He does a onceover in the mirror again. Minus the teeth marks, his hair’s folded back like caramel from a fresh bite of a _Milky Way._ His beard, if you can even call it that, is budding orange-red dahlias. And gleaming like the sunlight that brought those flowers is his chest: a field smattered with a riot of freshly kissed brown orchids, traveling as far south as his blue scrubs.

He laughs at his reflection every time. He could pass for a real doctor

—a _proctologist,_ maybe. Hired by the Village People.

The things people find sexy continues to baffle him.

All his life, Dean Winchester's been cutting his picture to fit someone else's frame. He tells himself trimming the ends will be worth the jagged proportions, but the cardboard ends up showing through anyway. In other words, he'll always be a hair away from meeting someone else's expectations - if hair means wig.

The room is packed tonight. Not the usual crowd. Apparently, the CEO of Angel Soft, yes _that_ Angel Soft, is in the audience. Marc-Mitch-Michael… Michael Novak? Based on the description Ruby gave him (“ _I told you,_ tall, brown hair, leather jacket.”) it could be any white guy in the joint. But Dean has a feeling the debonair guy parked next to the tongue of the stage, putting enough pressure on his avocados to make guacamole, is him. He’s attractive, sure, in a father kind of way, maybe, but not really his type.

Unless that roll of quarters in his pocket turns into a roll of hundreds. Then he’ll be fucking Rock Hudson.

The guy next to _him,_ however. He and Novak must be related, because they share the same hard, resting expression, except this guy is much more casual in a hoodie and a pair of dark khakis. He has eyes strobe light blue, a mop of dark brown hair, and beard that’s not a five or six, but a twelve-o-clock shadow.

Meeting Dean’s emerald eyes, his chapped lips curve into a smile, which lifts his peach fuzz and highlights the real peaches hanging underneath the shadows of his teabags. He reminds Dean of a younger Santa Claus.

Dean’s eyes linger a little longer before he realizes he’s staring.

That, and his song’s blasting on the overhead speakers: “Dr. Feelgood” by Motley Crue. Classic.

The audience goes wild. They always do. Even for the first half of the performance he spends strutting up and down the stage in true Vince Neil fashion.

Breaking into a pirouette of slow grinds and wandering hands, he rips the scrubs off easier than if Tarzan wore clothes, revealing sparkling red briefs with a lollipop slapped on the front. He makes his way to Michael as a lavish grin breaks across the man’s face—the kind he’s probably used on countless secretaries before insisting HR that it’s _not_ sexual harassment.

Dean straddles him before moving in sync with the hard, heavy bass.

The chorus plays on:

_“He's the one they call Dr. Feelgood_

_He's the one that makes ya feel alright_

_He's the one they call Dr. Feelgood”_

If this was five years ago, Dean would say there’s an art to this sort of thing. (Stripping, he means, not humping a closeted forty-year-old man with an abnormally small dick.) But after so long doing this on the side, the magic’s kind of worn off.

Michael’s harder than a doorknob—which, Dean would laugh if he was somewhere more private, probably best sums his personality. Dean distracts himself by slipping his head over Michael’s shoulder and craning his head to Blue-Eyed Santa, who’s watching much less predatorily. In fact, the guy’s actually red in the face, playing with the _drawstring_ of his hoodie of the same color, as if weakly attempting to smother himself.

Dean makes a rash decision climbing off Michael, who’s not as swallowed by the throes of paid passion as Dean would like when he positions himself on Blue Eyes instead.

Above the crowd and the noise (and Michael’s endless griping and groaning), Blue Eyes speaks the loudest. Dean’s done this long enough to read people’s body language: It’s the way his irises slowly black out the Pacific and Atlantic Ocean in both eyes looking up at Dean. It’s the way his mouth parts over again, as if aspiring to be a human Venus flytrap.

It’s the way his body goes completely rigid against his.

For once, as Mick Mars crosses the electric bridge and Dean throws his stethoscope around the man’s neck and starts to grind, he doesn’t mind the part of the job that usually disgusts him. Because Blue Eyes’ long hardness followed by the weirdly warm stickiness soaking his khakis is nothing compared to _that_ look. The look that’s hard to see because Blue Eyes is arching his head back and shaking and moaning in time with the warped sound of the guitar.

Dean hops off of him not before carding his fingers through Blue Eyes’ hair until he’s aligned with Dean’s face, then he plants one on him. It’s a sloppy kiss and over quick: Just a short lick into his mouth, like a credit card swiping through a machine, but it leaves both of them breathless.

The chorus plays on:

_“I've got one thing you'll understand (Dr. Feelgood)_

_He's not what you'd call a glamorous man (Dr. Feelgood)_

_Got one thing that's easily understood (Dr. Feelgood)_

_He's the one they call Dr. Feelgood, oh yeah”_

The song ends there, and there’s an explosion of catcalls and claps loud enough to rouse Mount Vesuvius. Dean manages to take a bow, grab his coat, and sneak out the back before someone in the audience calls for an encore. His knees are too weak for that—and not because he’s peaking thirty, either.

Outside, leaning against the brick wall on the side of the establishment, he breathes in the dank Kansas air. Usually, he’d be whipping out a cigarette, but because he’s reaching the age where an _actual_ doctor can warn him about certain foods, he decided to quit altogether. It’s probably better anyhow. Hacking a lung on stage would mean living on the streets, and as much as he hates his landlord, he can’t have that. The risk of being caught by one of his students is already high enough.

He’s into his fourth inhalation when a man approaches him. Dean recognizes him as Michael Novak, aka Angel Not-As-Soft when it comes to the likes of men ten years his junior.

“Some show you put on,” he says, crowding impossibly closer to Dean with a look that speaks without having to verbally cast aspersions. “Too bad it wasn’t for me.”

Dean just laughs, eyes flicking to his lips. “Wow, a guy worked up about being blue-balled—never seen _that_ before. Better take that up with HR. They should be able to solve your problem.”

“Oh, I’ll _show_ you blue balls, you cockteasing cocksucker,” he grits out, gripping Dean’s arm and twisting it behind his head. His hand is sweaty. His breath is hot against Dean’s neck.

Before Michael can do anything makeup can’t, however, a second pair of footsteps emerges from the darkness. “Let him go, Mike,” the disembodied voice, low and raspy, growls.

“Not now, Castiel,” Michael replies, slamming Dean’s arm harder into the wall.

The other man, Dean recognizes as Blue Eyes when he steps under the post lamp, pulls Michael’s arm behind his head. Michael cries out just before Castiel kicks him from behind, sending Michael’s knees colliding with the wet pavement. Castiel’s grip doesn’t falter as he commands, “Apologize.”

“Castiel—” A whimper as Castiel twists harder. “I-I’m sorry,” he breathes, peering up at Dean.

Castiel pulls him to his feet with the same harshness. “Get out of here.”

Michael does as he’s told, slyly glowering at Dean as he goes.

When he’s completely out of sight, Dean turns to Castiel, “Asshole brother?”

“Asshole c _ousin.”_

Dean chuckles, “You really could’ve had me fooled, you know that?”

Castiel tilts his head in a way that’s a little creepy, but mostly endearing because then he catches Dean’s drift, regressing back to his state earlier, laughing nervously as he rubs his neck, “Oh yeah, no-I, uhm, you were really good. Sorry for, you know—”

“Cuming on me? Don’t worry, it happens a lot.”

“I _was_ going to say the asshole cousin, but…” Castiel stops, blushing even harder.

Dean laughs again with a shrug, “That happens a lot, too. Dean,” he offers. “First time at a strip club?”

“Castiel, but you can call me Cas. First time at a strip club in a while with my lunatic cousin, yes.”

“Why did you come with him?”

Cas shrugs, but it’s not as fluid as Dean’s. “He offered to pay. He’s firing a bunch of people, so he’s out—or _was_ out—celebrating, and I’m upgrading from cardboard to plaster.”

Dean winches, because Jesus, how could he have not known? “You’re homeless?”

“Was,” Cas clarifies with an easy smile that assures Dean it’s okay, “I’m finally getting my own place. I’m the inventory manager at the Gas n’ Sip on sixty-sixth. I’m also in charge of nuking taquitos.”

Dean nods, impressed. Taquitos are pretty damn good—when nuked right. “Congratulations.”

Cas takes a bow similar to the one Dean gave after his show. Dean laughs as Cas says, “Thank you.” Then: “So, how do you even handle all those guys? I mean, because some of them are really attractive—”

“Like you?” Dean dares. Cas bites his lip, too flushed to finish. Dean does the job for him: “I’m asexual.”

“Oh, I didn’t-I’m sorry—”

Dean scoffs, “I’m not. Have you seen the _other_ guys that walk through those doors?”

Cas laughs, “That’s true. But how do you do that? Working as an exotic dancer, I mean?”

“I’m immune to it,” Dean replies. Then the corner of his right lip turns up with the ease of someone crinkling a loose leaf paper, remembering a few _uninvited_ guests—not including the ones in their trousers, “for the most part. And hey, it helps pay the bills when I’m off duty, so.”

Cas’s eyebrows peak with interest, then narrow just as quick. “Don’t tell me you’re a real doctor.”

Dean nearly busts a nut laughing so hard before composing himself, “No, no. I wouldn’t need this job if I was. I mean, for a while, it was good. The money, the attention… but I’m almost thirty. It’s sort of wearing on me, you know?” Dean leans against the wall again. “If I could, I’d just teach.”

“What grade?”

“Seventh.”

“Where at?”

“Shurley Elementary.”

“Jesus,” Cas barks in the form of a laugh, “that’s only ten minutes away.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Believe me, I _know._ So far, so good though.”

“For the record, you are too. Attractive, I mean.”

Cas says it like someone learning how to pray aloud for the first time: Fumbling over his words, but retaining all the sincerity. Dean, in his five years of doing this, blushes. He gets told he’s gorgeous in many different ways, be it the ‘Love You’ eyelids from Becky Rosen in 5th period, or the dudes he grinds on that scream it, but with Cas it’s different. Cas actually means it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Cas assures, gummy smile evident. “I would know, I used to be a plastic surgeon before my practice got bought out. I’ve sometimes had to make people a new _face,_ and they’d look pretty good, but you’re…”

“Attractive?” Dean laughs again.

“…Yeah,” Cas answers shyly.

“How did you do that?”

“Fall into the business, you mean?” Cas shakes his head. “You know, I’m not sure. Some people look at that particular career as an abomination, you know, but I just like making people feel better about themselves.”

Dean’s lips turn up. “I think you’re doing a pretty good job.”

Cas looks up at Dean then, lips parted, eyes wide. But it’s not like earlier. This time, it’s not instigated by sex. It’s instigated by open, honest conversation, and Dean can’t help but feel proud of who he is in this moment.

He realizes, maybe it’s not the picture that’s busted, but the frame.

That thought doesn’t cross him, however, until few months later during a midnight spooning with Cas.

 

 


End file.
